


Fear and Pain

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Sleep and Rest and Peace [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Brave Mycroft, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mycroft-centric, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Post-Season/Series 04 Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 12:41:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9657875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Mycroft and Greg realise they can't hide at Mycroft's house forever. There are consequences that must be faced, and only they can do so.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I've been putting off writing this until I could make some notes from the end of TFP. Really, though, I wasn't sure what was going to happen, and that made me cross and nervous. Two hours ago, though, there was inspiration, and now, the chapter's done. Amazing how she can strike so quickly! It's not perfect (might be some tweaking still) but I wanted to publish it, otherwise I might tweak it for the next month instead of sharing.   
> Thank you for all the kind words on this. It's been an emotional investment, that's for sure. <3

Exhausted by their activities, Greg and Mycroft drifted off to sleep after a perfunctory clean up. Mycroft’s body was still recovering from those dark days between Euros’ re-incarceration and Greg coming to find him, and he slept deeply.

When Mycroft woke, it was to an empty bed. The sheets beside him were cold to the touch, so Gregory had been up for a while, clearly reluctant to wake him. Mycroft stretched, then winced, forgetting the discomfort brought by such amorous activities. He rolled carefully and sat up, shifting his weight experimentally. He would have to be careful not to show this with any changes to his gait or posture – Sherlock would certainly be able to make the short leap from ‘I asked Greg to look out for you’ to ‘you seem to be having trouble sitting down’.

Mycroft stood and made his way to the bathroom, relieving himself before looking in the mirror. The love bite Gregory had left might just fit under a collar, provided he chose carefully; otherwise, there seemed to be little evidence other than slight rash burn. He applied a soothing gel to his face, hoping it would protect his skin and reduce the redness.

Mycroft donned clean pants, then his dressing gown, before standing still for a moment and admitting to himself what he had been avoiding these past moments. Now that his personal crisis had more or less passed, he would have to face the world. Get dressed, see his brother, certainly, and his parents; someone would have to explain to them the whole sordid story, from the falsified death of Euros up to the events of the past few days.

Of course that someone would be him; he must face his demons, take responsibility for the mistakes he had made. His mother would be furious, his father more bewildered than anything, Mycroft mused, but his main concern was the impact this whole debacle would have on his relationship with Sherlock. He, more than anyone else had been affected by Eurus’ madness, both as a child and in the recent days.

Mycroft sighed, shoulders slumping. Yet another innocent victim of his best intentions.

+++

Downstairs, Greg was frowning at his mobile, which had lay untouched in his bag since his arrival at Mycroft’s house. Anthea had admitted him personally, and she had been the last outside person Greg had seen since he arrived. When was that, exactly?

It had been Tuesday afternoon when Anthea had pulled a ‘Mycroft’, showing up and basically kidnapping him. Wednesday morning they had woken on the couch, taken a bath together, watched _Casablanca_ ; which made today Thursday. Greg glanced at his watch. Thursday, 3.11pm. They’d slept most of the day away, the stress and exuberant sex taking the last of their energy. He wondered how long Mycroft would sleep. They definitely needed to talk, especially in light of the dozens of text messages and voicemails he had just worked his way through.

In the end, a notepad was needed to track Sherlock, John, Sally, the Superintendent (he was in a LOT OF TROUBLE) and even Anthea’s concern. He’d dealt with some of them easily (Anthea never wanted explanations, she’d just do as he asked, sending soothing, important sounding missives to Superintendent Allan and to Sally, covering for him, though Sally would probably want the low down in person; John never really needed details, just wanted to know he was alive), but Sherlock was another issue altogether.

Greg pressed the button to listen to his voicemail again, leaving it on speaker so he could check the accuracy of his notes.

“Look, Greg,” Sherlock’s voice came, tinny but exasperated, “I assume you’re with Mycroft. When you finish wringing him out or shagging him, whichever it happens to be, you need to call me.” He paused here, the annoyed tone dropping, his voice more tired and almost childlike. “Mummy and Father know something has happened, Musgrave was all over the news and they can’t contact Mycroft or Anthea. I can’t tell them…I don’t know…” He paused again, a shuddering breath before continuing, “Mycroft needs to deal with this. If you have been shagging, I sincerely never want to hear about it, but he will need you, Greg. He will need your strength and support, because nobody can do this for him. You can’t let this break him.”

Greg ended the call, knowing that was the end, despite wondering on the first listen if Sherlock had been planning on saying more. At least Greg knew Sherlock approved of their relationship. Or didn’t disapprove, might have been a better way of putting it, but still. A lack of active outrage was a positive thing.

“Good morning, Gregory,” Mycroft’s voice was soft from the doorway.

Greg sincerely hoped he had not overhead the voicemail. The Holmes’ brothers had maintained their fiction of mutual dislike for a long time, and hearing such blatant concern from his brother would tax Mycroft, especially now.

“Good morning,” Greg replied, “Though it’s not really. Morning,” he added at Mycroft’s confused look.

“Oh yes,” Mycroft replied. He shook his head. “I’ll be terribly jet lagged after this.” He moved to the bench to make tea, adding with a yawn, “Though I may in fact be able to sleep again tonight.”

Greg wanted to stand and put his arms around Mycroft, but he hesitated. The spell they had been under, that had cocooned them in its magical bubble of comfort and seclusion for the past few days, had broken as soon as he turned on his phone and started reading messages. He knew the outside world was there, waiting; in fact it wasn’t waiting, things were happening and their presence was sought, demanded even. Greg sighed. Honeymoon periods usually lasted longer than this.

As Mycroft turned with his tea, Greg said, “Listen, Mycroft," and the tone in his voice made Mycroft pause, his posture changing, shifting from the relaxed slump to an instantly more upright, professional stance.

“No no no,” Greg said in response, standing to face Mycroft. He took the tea, placing it carefully on the bench before enveloping Mycroft in the hug he had decided against earlier. M

ycroft started at the suddenness, then melted in to Greg, his own arms slipping around his waist. Greg closed his eyes, grateful he had paused their conversation to re-establish that this was in fact where they were both at. He sighed. “I needed that.” Greg said, letting Mycroft go with a quick kiss on the temple.

Mycroft’s face was faintly pink, and he smiled, “Me too.”

They sat again, more relaxed, though Greg could tell that Mycroft knew there was a Conversation with a capital C coming.

“I turned on my phone this morning,” Greg said, and the resignation in Mycroft’s face was clear. He nodded.

“I assume there were a number of people trying to contact you,” Mycroft said carefully, his hands cupping the tea tightly.

Greg nodded, looking into his own, now cold, tea. “Christ, Mycroft, this last couple of days has been a rollercoaster. Don’t get me wrong, I have really enjoyed it, and I wouldn’t change it, but the real world is still spinning out there.” Greg paused, thinking over what he’d just said, then added, “Just to be clear, I still want us to be us,” he emphasised the point with a hand over Mycroft’s, warm from holding his mug of tea. “But, we can’t stay here forever.”

Greg’s eyes were a little tentative. He hoped Mycroft knew what he was trying to say – there was still fallout from the Eurus incident for both of them to deal with, and it couldn’t be put off any longer.

Mycroft nodded at Greg, his heart still racing. For a moment, he had wondered if Greg was trying to let him down gently, and his relief at the confirmation of their relationship was palpable.

Drawing a deep breath, Mycroft spoke, his hand still within Greg’s on the table. “I had come to the same conclusion, Gregory.” He smiled a little hesitantly. “I am glad you were clear about us being still…” he trailed off, Greg’s hand squeezing his in an unspoken understanding.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “I assume you have been contacted by your superior at Scotland Yard. Anthea can smooth things over regarding your unexplained absenc….what?”

The look of amusement on Greg’s face was so jarring that Mycroft cut himself off, questioning the expression. “I’ve already been in contact with Anthea, she’s talking to my boss.” He grinned. “After all this time, I can use Anthea for my own purposes too, Mycroft.” Mycroft raised one eyebrow in approval, and Greg leaned forward and kissed him briefly. “I learned from the best.” He murmured.

Mycroft felt emboldened enough to murmur back, “the best, hmmm?” his voice heavy with insinuation.

Greg’s surprised chuckle made bubbles of happiness rise through Mycroft’s chest. He smiled. The moment hung in the air like one of those bubbles, until, inevitably, it was burst by the ring of Greg’s phone. He rolled his eyes when he checked the caller ID. “Sherlock.” He said, handing the phone to Mycroft. “He won’t want me.”

Mycroft looked at it, swallowed hard, then pressed the button to accept the call. His voice was steady, though his hand was gripping Greg’s hard enough that his pale knuckles were whiter still.

“Brother, how nice for you to join us,” Sherlock said, though his tone lacked its usual bite. He sounded sincere, actually, Mycroft registered absently.

“Thank you,” Mycroft answered, then waited rather than baiting Sherlock with one of his own barbs. It was a long pause, Sherlock clearly thrown by the change to their dynamic. A passive Mycroft was not a regular occurrence. Mycroft was taking no chances against the possibility of his brother deciding once and for all to cut Mycroft out of his life.

“Mummy and Father are asking questions I am not equipped to answer,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft could hear the plea behind the words. Sooner rather than later, Mycroft’s conscience told him. “If you would contact them, please Sherlock,” a sharp intake of breath at his use of ‘please’, “I will arrange for a helicopter to pick them up from-“

“They are in London, Mycroft. Have a car bring them to you.”

Mycroft sighed. “We should go to Sherrinford, Sherlock,” he said without heat, allowing the resignation to colour his quiet voice. He looked up and saw the compassion in Gregory’s eyes. Prickles started behind his eyes, and he tore them away, that level of emotion unwise while talking to his perceptive younger brother.

“Very well,” Sherlock answered, then asked, more tentatively than Mycroft could remember, “Me, too?”

“Yes, Sherlock, I think so. I’ll have Anthea get in touch. It will be this evening, however.” Mycroft’s voice lacked his previous authoritarianism, though Sherlock still did not object to his decision.

“Fine.” Sherlock seemed to hesitate, before the line went dead.

Mycroft exhaled sharply, his shoulders drooping after the unconsciously straight backed posture he had assumed while talking to Sherlock.

“So, tonight then?” Greg asked, and Mycroft nodded, the apprehension in his eyes. This would be difficult, more difficult than the initial decisions, which he thought had been made in a vacuum, without the emotions his parents would surely bring to the meeting. Perhaps, though, his own emotions had played a bigger part than he had realised, and they should be a part of this story, however painful that would be.

“You’re doing the right thing, Mycroft,” Greg’s words echoed his thoughts, and Mycroft’s grateful look fell on him once again.

“Will you be here when I get back? Please?” Mycroft asked, knowing he sounded vulnerable. It didn’t matter with Gregory, though, like it had mattered with so many others. Gregory saw his fear and pain and enveloped them, celebrated the emotions that had been buried so long.

Greg smiled. “Of course, Mycroft.”


End file.
